Walking Away Again
by DeejayMil
Summary: Nothing could ever be as hard as laying motionless while his friend screamed his name overhead. Except for this.


The room itself seemed to be waiting for the fallout, poised in a single moment, not a movement to break the tension. So when the tall man slammed open the door and staggered in, the break in the silence was deafening, even if the sound itself was muted.

Sherlock fell to his knees, threading his long fingers though his lank curls, desperately trying to hold himself inside his head, to stop himself from spilling all over the floor. He couldn't think, couldn't stop thinking, head spinning wildly, sick with panic and a slow, throbbing nausea that threatened to undo him.

This was wrong, it was all wrong and something had happened that had made it distinctly (_stop it. Stop this_) not fine anymore. He had been so very clever, smart ,(_bravest and cleverest knight_) brilliant Sherlock, oh weren't you fantastic Sherlock, fooling everyone.

No one saw through the ruse that he, Sherlock, fickle, genius Sherlock, had put into play. No one, (_I was so alone_), not even his blogger, his John.

The one person who was never supposed to believe in it, (_it's just a magic trick_) the one he did it to protect. The heart he needed to protect (_that's what people do_), the heart he fell for. Oh clever Sherlock, always with the plans, foolproof plans that couldn't possibly go amiss, because God goes out of his way to make all of Sherlock's wonderful plans happen.

Except this. Sherlock opened his mouth, trying to scream, trying to force the image of John's haunted face from his, the words choked over a shiny (_one more miracle_) headstone, mocking him with its pretentiousness. Mycroft, of course. Picking up the pieces after Sherlock as usual, the pieces of the man Sherlock had shattered as though he had thrown him off the roof.

John was supposed to watch, was supposed to see, the big reveal. The clue that Sherlock left for him (_keep your eyes fixed on me_), he was supposed to KNOW. Sherlock hadn't fathomed, couldn't imagine, a world where John existed without him (_don't move_), a world that John now found himself in, more alone (_I owe you so much_) than before.

He cursed Moriarity, Mycroft, the biker that struck John. He cursed the assassins, Lestrade (_EVERYONE_) and most of all, he cursed himself, the wonderful Sherlock Holmes, and his heart twisted in his chest until the pain made him sob and he thought it might break in two.

He stood, determined, most definitely not crying, and swept towards the door. He would see John, fix this, and then he would DESTROY (_I see_) all that was left of Moriarity, and leave a smoking crater that would serve as a reminder to anyone foolish enough to dance with a demon (_you're not ordinary_) who fought for the angels (_thank you_).

A hand stopped him. Sherlock snarled at his brother, eyes pale and wild in a face turned feral in its grief. Mycroft didn't recoil, didn't flinch, just stared calmly back at him, imploring him with his gaze to just THINK for a moment. "If you go to him, it's over."

This, this was the hardest thing he'd ever done. He had thought, as he laid on the sidewalk, feeling blood, both real and fake, pool around him and soak his hair and clothes, that nothing could ever be as hard as watching his best friend reach (_Oh god_) and scream his name, (_No, don't-_) and fall apart, too distraught to put together the clues and realize the truth. He had only managed to keep himself limp as John (_He's my friend!_), his gentle eyes glazed with shock and horror, pawed at his wrist. Only with the thought that soon enough, John would realize, it was all just a trick.

But now, Sherlock knew with a force that threatened to bring him to his knees again, that the only thing worse than dying in front of his friend, was walking away from him. Again, to walk away again and this time, with no gleam of hope to guide him home.

He shook his brother's hand off of himself, and stared ahead with a steady gaze, and moved forward, a hunter once more (_say it now_).

This way, he would have something to come home to. It was the only (_goodbye John_) way.

(_I love you_)


End file.
